


The Mug and the Muggle

by thaliachaunacy (thalialunacy)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The X-Files
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-18
Updated: 2007-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thaliachaunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one with Mulder & Scully, lol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mug and the Muggle

**Author's Note:**

> Just read. Don't ask.

“What do _mean_ , you don’t have a Ford Taurus for us?”

The concierge looks at the large-nosed man disdainfully. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s either the Jaguar or nothing.”

 _‘Ja-goo-aaahr’. Prick._ Mulder chews his cheek and nods once. “Fine.”

***

“How is it that a country that’s a million years old still hasn’t learned how to make a decent enchilada?” Mulder stabs at his take-out. “Anyways, I called this ‘contact’ Skinner gave us and I’m pretty sure we’re dealing with a small-time wacko. He swears he’s got these neighbors that have this nephew—“

There’s a crack and the business-end of Mulder’s spork goes flying across the room. Scully sighs and automatically hands hers over. “I’m not hungry. Keep talking.” Mulder doesn’t hesitate.

“—this nephew that can, I dunno, ‘do magic’ is what he keeps saying, but it doesn’t sound like anything he learned from a Lance Burton video.”

“Fine.” Scully puts a hand over her mouth to cover a small yawn. “We’ll question him tomorrow.”

“And have some haggis,” Mulder muses helpfully while picking up his jacket.

“That’s Scotland, Mulder.”

“Yes, and we’re getting a train _to_ Scotland tomorrow afternoon. That’s where the guy says the nephew actually lives.”

Scully rolls her eyes and closes the door behind him. “Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

***

“Well _that_ was a waste of time,” Scully says as she sits down in their train car. “Hordes of owls? Flying cars? He might as well have been giving an interview to the National Enquirer.”

“Yeah.” Mulder spits a shell into a small paper cup. “But you gotta admit, his neighbors did seem kind of jumpy.”

Scully snorts delicately. “Wouldn’t you be, if you lived next door to that sort of delusional pathology?”

Mulder shoots her a cocky grin, and Scully rescinds. “Okay, bad example.”

***

“Damn it,” Scully mutters as one of her heels sinks into the soft ground of the road. Again. “We really should’ve just paid him what he wanted.”

Mulder shakes his head and takes her elbow while she rights herself. “No, I don’t think he would’ve actually brought us the whole way. We’re almost there, anyways.” He gestures up ahead to where a small cluster of buildings looms quietly. Then he points at the ruts in the road. “And those don’t look like taxi-cab tracks, do they?”

“No, but—“

“HALT!”

A fully-armored knight jumps directly into their path.

Scully blinks. “Um...”

Mulder steps in front of her. “Sir?”

The metal man doesn’t answer. In fact, he doesn’t move.

After a moment, Mulder pokes at his faceplate. “Hello?”

Nothing.

“Well.” Scully crosses her arms in front of her. “This certainly reinforces my ‘few crayons short of a Crayola box’ theory.” She tilts her head. “Although, it’s a credible reproduction, don’t you think?” She points at the weathered spots on the obviously-aged metal.

Mulder presses his finger into the codpiece. “I dunno, my medieval history is a bit _rusty_.” He grins at her, and she shakes her head with a small smile. “My guess is that he’s supposed to be a guardian to the town. I mean, there must be a reason the guy wanted us to give him a small fortune to drive up here.”

“Oh please.” Scully purses her lips and starts walking again. “It’s probably just an old man sitting on his front porch with a banjo.”

***

After traversing the deserted road for a hundred feet, passing one nondescript shack after another, Mulder stops in front of a small ridiculously-colored building that says “SWEETSHOP” in very large, garish letters. The windows are stuffed with displays of bright candies of every shape and size. Only—

“There’s no one inside, Mulder.”

Mulder cocks his head, then shrugs and pushes open the creaky candy-cane door. “More candy for me.”

Except that when he pokes at it, all the candy proves to be plastic.

“Well.” Scully smirks a bit at him. “Maybe it turned fake just in time for you to get here.”

“It’s always possible. I think Lance Burton did it once in Vegas.” He holds the door open for her. “Know-it-all.”

***

The next four buildings they break into—if pushing an unlocked door could be considered breaking and entering—are the same. Starting with an odd sort of gadget and practical joke emporium, going through a disgustingly chintzy coffee shop and a place selling brooms and plain-looking playground balls, and ending in a stereotypically British pub, the buildings are deserted and full of faux-merchandise.

In the last shop, Mulder tries to pick up a deceptively frosty-looking mug, but can’t make it budge. “Well. There goes my idea for proof.”

“You were hoping it would turn to real beer once you left the village?”

Mulder’s still pulling on it determinedly. “You know me too well, Scully.”

Then they hear a noise in the back of the shop. They immediately tense, hands on holsters.

Laughter. It sounds like laughter. Scully raises an eyebrow at Mulder. Conversation, obviously jovial, drifts to their ears.

He lifts his chin towards the back entrance and she nods. They walk forward silently, sweeping their guns out as Mulder pushes out the door with a thud.

“FBI!” “Freeze!” they shout simultaneously, startling the four young men sitting around a worn wooden table in the middle of the dark room.

Immediately, all four leap to their feet—although they seem a bit unsteady, one of them even sways as his chair tips over—and pull something out of their crazily swooshy black outfits.

“I said FREEZE!” Scully shouts again...then she sees what they’re brandishing.

Sticks. They’re pointing sticks at two people holding guns.

“Who are you?” the very tippy one says in an Irish accent, waving his stick a little.

“Agents Mulder and Scully, FBI.” Mulder flips out his badge. “We were sent here by the Yard to investigate some unusual—“

But the drunkard interrupts him, letting down his guard and his stick. “Muggles, then. Shite, mates,” he says to the other three. They’ve all let their sticks fall to their sides as well. “We must not’ve heard the beacon again. Go on, Neville,” he commands, gesturing sloppily at his big-toothed companion. “You’re better at it than I am.”

This ‘Neville’ shrugs and points his stick at them again. _“Obliviate!”_

***

 _Too hot_ is the first thing that comes to Scully’s mind as she pulls slowly out of sleep. The bed she’s in is uncomfortably warm, and the sheets are sticking to her skin.

A lot of her skin.

She’s up instantly, rolling out of bed and tugging the covers with her. Her panties might be lovely, but she normally doesn’t like them enough to sleep in _only_ them.

Immediately, she wishes she had left one of the sheets behind, because there’s a nearly-nude Mulder in her bed.

“Mulder!” she shouts, and he wakes with a grumble.

“Whaddya want? I was sleeping...”

He blinks at her in her linen toga.

“What the _hell?_ ”


End file.
